Improvisation
by ginger-veela
Summary: The applause still rings in my ears after the congratulations, the glad-handing, the endless intrusions from well-connected backstage interlopers seeking photographs and autographs and snippets of conversation.


**Title:** Improvisation  
><strong>Author: <strong>ginger_veela  
><strong>Beta: <strong>femmequixotic  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Harry/Draco  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 7,650  
><strong>Content:<strong> Non-magical A/U set in the classical music world  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mature sexual content

**Summary:** The applause still rings in my ears after the congratulations, the glad-handing, the endless intrusions of well-connected backstage interlopers seeking photographs and autographs and snippets of conversation.

**Author Notes:** Written for Noe for my Hump Day Porn-A-Thon in her honor. Noe requested H/D, hot tubs, kissing, and Americans, and it so happened this fic was already rattling around in my head, waiting for the right recipient. I'm enormously grateful for her cheerleading this story and for taking time out of finishing her doctorate(!) to beta my story Nancy Boys; this is my long-overdue thank you. Much love to Femme for the fabulous beta/Britpick and for just being so awesome.

**Disclaimer:** The real people and organizations depicted herein are 100% fictionalized; no personal or professional disrespect is intended toward Michael Tilson Thomas, Joshua Kosman, Eugenio Jardim, or the musicians or management of the San Francisco Symphony or the San Francisco Opera.

**Improvisation**

The applause still rings in my ears after the congratulations, the glad-handing, the endless intrusions of well-connected backstage interlopers seeking photographs and autographs and snippets of conversation. Alone in my dressing room, I close my eyes, amplify its tepid volume in my mind — after all, it's the only real reward I'll receive for my efforts tonight.

I can already see Kosman's review in tomorrow's _Chronicle_. "Prickly and inaccessible," he'll say of the Snape Concerto, before waxing rhapsodic about Britten's _War Requiem_. My late teacher's magnum opus, in all likelihood, will never be appreciated for the masterwork that it is — not even in the city that's supported such innovative programming as _Gay Life_.

I sigh, pick up my mobile, and peruse my messages. Christ. Twenty-three texts from my manager-cum-publicist in London, from reminders of my appointments tomorrow to admonitions to avoid cameras whilst lighting up — bad for one's image, she claims, at least on the shallow side of the pond. This, from the woman who smoked three fags a day throughout her pregnancy. If Pansy wasn't so bloody good at her job, I'd have told her to bugger off years ago. As it is, I have to listen to her bemoan the dearth of buggering in her life since Mingmei was born — leading me to remind her that Cho lacks the requisite equipment, rendering the point moot. In any case, invitations to the Chang-Parkinson household have been far fewer and further between since baby made three.

Pansy's not the only one who's settled down, though she's possibly the most surprising. I've performed with many of our conservatory's former students over the course of my latest tour, and they've been pairing off left and right and starting families. Dean and Seamus are the worst offenders; they've been a couple for as long as any of us can remember, through countless regional career moves and one intercontinental one. Dean left a plum job with the Pegasus Opera when Seamus won the Principal Trumpet audition here last year; with few roles written for black singers and even fewer American opera companies with colour-blind casting policies, he's been struggling to find work ever since. When the tenor soloist for tonight's _Requiem_ took ill late last week, Seamus pulled strings to get Dean the gig; it's his long-overdue break, and even I find myself wishing him luck. The music world is cold enough without the frostbite of old intra-school cliques and rivalries.

Save for one, that is.

I'm soaked in sweat from the heat of the stage lights and the exertion of performing; I desperately want to return to my hotel room and shower, but Seamus strong-armed me into meeting them at Jardinière after the concert, for reasons that seem lacking in retrospect. It's not their company I mind per se; it's that an upscale restaurant filled with hoary symphony-goers and opera percussionists tippling scotch during long tacets in _Die Walküre_ is hardly prime cruising grounds. Visiting San Francisco, the Mecca of shirtlifters, is tragically uneventful with an old married couple for tour guides. They've no interest in the bar scene, and when the loneliness of life on the road becomes too much, a blow job in the loo of a nightclub is preferable to the company of my lotioned hand and an empty hotel room.

Not that I've slept alone every night since leaving home. Save for a slightly receding hairline, I've still enough of my youthful good looks to get my bed warmed when the mood strikes.

Which might be tonight, if a better offer than the one I received during intermission doesn't present itself.

I slip out of my dressing room and steal down to the loading dock. The Britten's already started; I've a fleeting pang of guilt for leaving, but I can always catch tomorrow night's performance — and the concerto's lukewarm reception has left me feeling melancholy and out of sorts. I nick a Marlboro from a stagehand on my way out — foul things, but the odds of finding an American who smokes Dunhills make the effort not worthwhile — and stroll toward Grove Street, needing refuge in the nearest bottle of Bordeaux.

Thirty minutes hence, I'm ensconced at the circular bar, halfway through my fourth glass of Château Mouton-Rothschild; the strains of "Night and Day" drift down from somewhere in the vicinity of the gold-domed ceiling. Eugenio, the sommelier, places a full glass next to my wrist.

"What's this?"

"Stag's Leap Cabernet. From an admirer."

I frown. Drinks from anonymous sources usually lead to awkward situations — especially when the sender turns out to be highly unattractive, or worse, female — but given Eugenio's expertise at pairings, I'm willing to gamble. I pick up the glass, swirl it slightly, and lift it to my nose — cherry, with notes of nutmeg and blackcurrant. I take a sip; flavours of dark plum and allspice slide across my palate, leading to a long, velvety finish.

"Excellent. Vintage?"

"1981."

My brow furrows. "Wasn't that a bad year for Stags?"

He smirks. "It was. Some things get better with enough time, though. Like old hurts."

"Or unlike them." I glance around, but no one is looking in my direction.

"Well, please give my thanks to my _admirer_."

Eugenio's mouth quirks. "Maybe you'd like to thank him yourself. He's sitting upstairs."

At least the gender is right. "Is he attractive?"

He leans in close. "_Very_."

A smile curls my lips; this just might turn into something interesting. "Lead the way, then."

Eugenio places my glass on a tray and heads up the stairs; I stand and follow him, clinging rather tightly to the railing lest I take a drunken tumble. He sets the glass on a table near the piano and pulls out a chair for me; I collapse into it, full of vinous bravado and ready for action.

Harry bloody Potter steps out from behind the piano.

I gasp, and his eyes lock on mine. A whole collage of memories and feelings races through my head: the day we met at the conservatory, our first kiss, the joy of falling in love, the heartbreak of his betrayal. I remember exactly how I discovered the treachery. Sent to the dean's office on some errand or another, I found the door slightly ajar; I peered through the crack, only to see Harry seated at Dumbledore's piano—practicing, in secret, the final movement of the most diabolically difficult piano concerto ever composed: the infamous _Vol de Mort_, or Flight of Death. Harry's fingers flew over the keys with speed and accuracy that defied belief. Even Dumbledore, one of the greatest pianists who had ever lived, could not have matched him.

The extraordinary difficulty of the work, the secrecy surrounding its preparation, could mean only one thing: Harry was entering the Van Cliburn, the most prestigious piano competition in the world — the one for which I'd been groomed since my arms were long enough to reach the keys. Winning it meant more than glory, more than the promise of a spectacular career; for me, it meant Father's approval — a prize more coveted and elusive than any trophy — and Harry wanted to take it from me.

I turned on my heel, dashed down the stairs, and ran back to my practice room, locking myself inside.

Then I picked up my metronome and smashed it against the door.

"Thought you might enjoy trying one of the local varietals. When in Rome, you know."

I blink. Harry's standing next to the table, hands fisted in his trouser pockets, amusement warring with trepidation on his face. Realising, apparently, that an invitation to sit with me isn't forthcoming, he sits down anyway. He nods at my glass. "How do you find it?"

I frown. "I find it too bold. Bordering on arrogant."

His mouth quirks. "Stag's Leap bested Rothschild at the Judgment of Paris. Maybe you should give it another chance."

"Maybe winning isn't everything. But I forget to whom I speak."

His face shutters. "That wasn't meant as an insult."

"Mine was."

He looks away, trying to regain his composure, and I take full advantage; my eyes wander over him, re-searing his image into my memory. I can see he's filled out beneath the suit—no longer the skinny boy whose every inch of skin I once explored with the wonder of newly-awakened desire. Somehow, he's grown into his hair as well; now, it's fashionably rumpled instead of just comically untamed. I'm seized with a sudden impulse to run my fingers through it.

I have _got_ to get hold of myself.

"What are you doing here?" I hear myself saying.

He looks back at me. "I work here, at least sometimes. It's been one of my gigs since I moved up from L.A. six months ago." His mouth turns up at the corners. "What are _you_ doing here?"

I clear my throat. "I work here sometimes, too. Across the street, that is."

"At Davies." He smiles warmly. "I've followed your career. You're doing fantastically well for yourself."

"As well as can be expected for a runner-up." I'm entirely too pissed to be having this conversation. I glance around the restaurant. "Of course, no hall can hold a candle to a place like this."

His brow furrows. "It's not exactly a dive in the Tenderloin."

I stare daggers at him. "It's not exactly Carnegie, either."

He frowns. "So anything less than Carnegie Hall is slumming it, in your estimation."

"For you? Yes. And not just in my estimation." The old, familiar resentment is rising inside me again; I'm powerless to stop it. "They called you the Chosen One. The Saviour of the Classical Music World. And you shat on it. Shat on me."

He shakes his head. "Not on you. It had nothing to do with you–"

"It had _everything_ to do with me, you miserable, self-absorbed prick." I lift the glass to my lips and take a long swallow. Christ, I've turned into a five-year old. "I hope winning was worth it."

He shakes his head more vehemently. "No, it wasn't. Far from it."

I lean closer. "Then why do it? Why slave so hard to add that jewel to your crown, only to discard it? The world wants to know." I lean back in my chair again, eyes burning. "I want to know."

He rubs his face. "It's...complicated."

"Try me."

He purses his lips, leans his elbows on the table. "Did you ever feel like you were...born to do something? Like it was your destiny, whether you wanted any part of it or not? That's what the Van Cliburn was to me."

A knot twists in my stomach. _That's what it was to me, too_. I manage not to humiliate myself by saying it aloud.

"I spent seven years mastering the Riddle Concerto. _Seven years_. And the worst part is, I hated it — more with each passing year. It became almost like...an enemy that had to be destroyed. Does that make any sense?"

"Maybe to a madman." I drain my glass, set it on the table. "No one put a gun to your head. You could have walked away."

He shakes his head. "No, I couldn't. Not at the time." He winces. "You've no idea the pressure I felt, the expectations—from Dumbledore, McGonagall, all of them. It felt like the world would end if I didn't win. Like I had to do it even if it killed me."

"But it didn't." My fingers drum the table. Christ, I want a cigarette right now. "It just killed us."

His eyes plead for understanding. "I wanted to tell you—God knows I tried — but I always lost my nerve. I was scared you would hate me. With good reason, it turns out."

"Can you blame me?" I mutter.

Harry leans closer. "It was ages ago. One competition doesn't decide the whole course of our lives."

I look away. "That's easy for you to say. I'll forever be second best."

"Draco." His hand closes on mine; the pleasurable shock of his touch almost makes me jump out of my chair. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did." I can't disguise my pain — I never could around him — but I can at least salvage my dignity by feigning some measure of magnanimity. "It was a fair fight, I'll give you that. The best man won."

Harry shakes his head. "Won what? A trophy? Fame? Money? I never wanted any of that." His eyes find mine and hold them fast. "I lost the only thing that really mattered to me. That's why I can't go back to the classical world — because it's _your_ world." His thumb caresses the back of my hand. "Everything about it reminds me of you."

My face heats. "For someone who wants no part of my world, you spend an awful lot of time skulking around its fringes. This place isn't thirty paces from the Opera and the Symphony."

He gives me a small smile. "I suppose I do. The little glimpses of it have kept me going. Given me hope."

"Hope for what?"

He caresses my hand again, and I can't pull it away. "That someday you might walk in here. Into my life again."

I frown. "I swear on your parents' graves, I had no idea you were playing here tonight."

"Then it must have been fate." Harry grins like he's won yet another prize, and I want to wipe the smile from his face with a slap. Or a desperate kiss. "What are you doing after this?"

I withdraw my hand from his, with difficulty. "I don't see how that's any of your concern."

"I'd like to make it my concern." His fingertips brush my arm. "I'd like to see you again."

"I'm only here till Monday." I look away. "And my schedule's full to bursting."

"It'll have to be tonight, then." His voice deepens, the way it always did just before he'd whisper for me to meet him in the deserted corridor by his dormitory. "Where are you staying?"

"I've a room at the Fairmont." I give him my best meaningful smirk. "But I don't intend to stay there."

"Perfect. Then you can stay with me."

I snort a laugh. "That wasn't meant as a come-on."

"Mine was."

_Christ._ I swallow hard. "Do your chat-up lines usually work on other blokes?"

Harry's smile fades. "Wouldn't know. I haven't chatted up a bloke in ages." His eyes fill with pain. "My partner died just before I moved here."

My heart stops beating. "Your...partner?"

He nods. "We were together for seven years."

"Oh." I'd no idea he'd been in a serious relationship since we split — unsurprising, given his disappearance after winning the Van Cliburn — but the news that he replaced me still hits me like a physical blow. I grasp vainly for something appropriate to say. "Er...how are you doing with that?"

He shrugs. "As well as can be expected, for a widower of sorts." He tries to smile. "And you? Are you seeing anyone?"

I nod, determined to mask my hurt with braggadocio. "Several someones, in fact. I've a twink in every port." I pause for effect. "Figuratively speaking, of course."

"I'd hardly call the company you've been keeping here twink material." Harry's voice is steady, but his jaw tightens. "Your dinner date made the gossip columns."

"You, of all people, should know better than to believe everything you read. Especially in gossip columns." I bite back a smile, inwardly pleased at his jealousy. "It was just dinner. Michael's a friend."

"With benefits?"

"With connections. And a very extensive wine collection, of which I intend to avail myself during my stay."

"I think you may have reached your quota already." Harry reaches for my arm. "Let me take you home."

"I can manage, thank you very much." I shrug his hand away, knocking the empty glass off the table. It shatters on the floor.

Harry chuckles. "You'll never make it down the stairs without me."

He's a point there.

I clutch the lapels of Harry's jacket as he helps me up from the table, none too steady on my feet, and I topple against his chest. Somehow, my nose lands in the crook of his neck; the scent of his warm skin fills my nostrils. After ten years, he shouldn't smell so goddamned familiar.

"Easy, there." Harry drapes an arm around my shoulder.

"Sod you," I murmur, but his low, throaty laugh rumbles against my cheek, and it's all I can do not to turn my head and lick him from ear to clavicle. Instead, I feign disinterest.

"I've plans tonight." It's not entirely a lie, though the 'plan' was really more of a proposition, one I'd hoped to discard in favour of younger, more appealing opportunities in the Castro — before running into Harry, that is. "Michael's driver will be here any–"

"I'm changing your plans." I catch his smirk out of the corner of my eye as he steers me down the curved staircase. "MTT should have kept a closer eye on you if he wanted you in his bed tonight."

True, that.

I stumble out of Jardinière onto the sidewalk, Harry's arm still wrapped around me; moments later, a valet is ushering me into a silver convertible of mysterious provenance.

"Jaguar?"

He shakes his head, pushing the button to lower the roof. "Firebolt. I've a friend who builds custom cars."

"Paid for with your Van Cliburn winnings, no doubt." I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips, but I'm still pissed and childishly resentful and it's too late to take them back.

To his credit, Harry ignores the jibe. "Inheritance." He shifts into gear and pulls away from the kerb, just as Michael's driver pulls up behind us.

Minutes later we're flying across the Golden Gate Bridge, the wind whipping through my hair, the lights of San Francisco disappearing behind us in the side mirrors. Above the dark mountains to the east and north, thousands of stars glitter in the night sky.

"It's beautiful here," I admit grudgingly.

"Rather more so since you arrived." His warm hand closes on mine, and despite the unforgivably clichéd compliment, my heart beats faster.

We leave the highway, taking a long, winding road up into the hills. Harry pulls into a tiny car park perched on a cliff. An overgrown path leads down to a small house nestled in a copse of trees; a large round vat fronts the verandah.

"Is that a...?"

"Hot tub? Yeah. Neighbours aren't too fond of it." He puts the roof up and walks around to my side of the car to help me out. "Apparently, the last owner had a habit of shagging loud blondes in it at all hours."

"How quintessentially Californian." I lean against him as we make our way down the path, though the open-air ride has already sobered me up considerably. "And the new owner?"

His face falls; he chews his lip. "I haven't...been with anyone. Not since Robert died." He fumbles for his keys in his jacket pocket.

"Right. Of course not." It would seem my earlier over-imbibing has led to foot-in-mouth disease. I touch his arm. "I'm sorry for your loss. Truly."

Harry gives me a small smile. "So am I. He was a good man. He deserved a better death." His smile fades. "A better partner, too."

My brow furrows; I start to say something, but he pushes open the door and gestures me inside. He turns on the lights. The interior is brighter and more spacious than I would have guessed. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books and CDs ring the walls of the sitting room. A leather couch occupies the wall opposite, a tower of scores stacked beside it forming a makeshift table. A baby grand fills the nook by the front window.

"You've downsized."

Harry smirks. "The Steinway's in the studio. You've no idea what a bitch it was to get down there." He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the couch; I do likewise. As he ambles toward the kitchen, I can't help noticing the way his trousers drape over the curve of his arse. "Thirsty?"

I follow, eyeing the expensive-looking bottles in the racks along the corridor. "You're not going to offer me more wine?"

He reappears with two glasses of water and hands one to me. "Depends. How pissed do you need to be to let me into your pants?" He takes a sip.

I can't help blushing. "You always did have a one-track mind." I take a drink from my own glass, casting about for some reason not to fling my last shred of dignity to the wind and shag him then and there. "So why did Robert deserve a better partner? Did you abandon him, too?"

Christ, but that was inappropriate — and inordinately hurtful, besides. I open my mouth to apologise, but Harry holds up his hand.

"In a manner of speaking." He sets his glass down on the stack of scores, scrubs his face. "I wasn't really... _present_ for him. I think that's why he comforted himself with the one-night stands, why he got careless — why he got infected." His green eyes fill with sorrow; he looks away. "He always thought I was having an affair."

I take another sip of water. "Were you?"

Harry looks back at me and gives me a small, sad smile. "I suppose I was, in my own way. I was in love with someone else." He stares at me for a long moment; I feel strangely naked, even though I'm still wearing most of my tuxedo. I lift my water to my lips again. It sloshes inside the glass from my trembling hand.

"Wait here." He disappears downstairs, returning moments later with some pages of sheet music; he sets them on the piano. I follow him and peer over his shoulder at the hand-pencilled notes on the staff paper.

"Go on."

He pulls out the bench for me; I hand him my water and sit down. My fingers find the keys of the first soft, low chord, and I look up.

"Jazz."

He nods.

I play the next chord, and the next, and the next; Harry sits down beside me, picks out a sweet, tender melody in the upper register. The mood changes, segueing to a complex modal passage, a stormy, passionate bridge. He turns the last page; the staves are blank.

I give him a questioning look. "Unfinished?"

"Yeah. I've been working on it for ages." His eyes burn into mine. "Ten years, to be precise."

I look away, take a deep breath.

"It's beautiful." My hands tremble again; I can't disguise their shaking. "What's it called?"

His hand slips over mine, lacing our fingers together.

"_Starry Dragon_."

My heart pounds; I look back at him.

"How will it end?"

His mouth quirks. "Don't know yet." His fingertips trace the side of my face. "I've missed you. You've no idea how much."

"Bastard," I murmur, but my mouth captures his, and his lips — those _lips_ — are on mine, soft and wet and questing, and I'm seventeen again, giddy with the same excitement I felt the first time he locked the door of my practice room, pushed me up against one of the acoustic-tiled walls, and sucked my cock down to the root. My fingers tangle in his messy hair, pulling his face harder against mine. I can't get enough of him, can't taste enough of him, because it's been ten years since I've felt like this, since I've wanted someone body, mind and soul...

"Slow down, baby."

He pulls away, just enough to tease my tongue with the tip of his, and I want to slow down, want to savour this, but the irrational child in me can't believe this is really happening, can't believe he won't disappear again like he did before. He must be reading my mind, because he pushes away from me, cups my face in his hands.

"I never wanted to let you go. You know that, right?"

I silently curse the wine, because it's decimated not only my filters but also my defences. My eyes well up.

"You should have fought for me. Fought _with_ me. I was just angry, and hurt. I would have forgiven you...eventually."

"Would you?" His thumbs caress my cheeks. "It seems you still haven't."

"You didn't even want it. You won the _Van Cliburn_, for fuck's sake, and you threw it away." I dig deep, searching for the old, familiar resentment, but all I feel is regret for pushing him away, for the lost years we could have spent together. "I played one wrong note. One tiny mistake cost me everything."

Harry shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. "It wasn't a mistake. You were improvising."

I start to protest, but he silences me with another kiss, deeper this time, and then I'm groaning into his mouth, clutching his hair again, my prick growing painfully hard against the zip of my trousers. I wrestle with a jumble of confusing emotions—sadness for the precious time lost, anger at myself for ever thinking he was replaceable, hope that maybe it's not too late for us, fear that his dead lover might already have ensured that it is. His fingertips trail from the sides of my face down my neck; he unbuttons the top of my shirt, reaches inside, and thumbs my nipple. I gasp with pleasure; his lips leave mine, find the tender skin of my neck, and suck.

I pull away, breathless. "I'm sorry. I have to ask–"

"Don't be." Harry traces slow circles over the back of my hand with his free one. "I had myself tested once a month, from the time he was diagnosed until the drugs stopped working, and he became too ill to..." His voice trails off; his mouth twists. "We were extremely careful — always used two condoms. Always. I still get tested every three months, just to be sure. I was lucky, I suppose."

I nod. "As am I." I raise my fingers to his face, brush his shaggy fringe away from his eyes. "I'm glad you're still alive."

Harry takes my hand in his, moves it to his lips, and kisses my fingertips, one by one; I push two into his mouth, and he sucks them, pressing the flat of his tongue against the undersides. My prick gives a huge jerk; Christ, I could almost come just from this. I pull my fingers away.

"I think it's time you shagged a loud blond in that hot tub of yours."

He grins, caresses my thigh. "I don't remember you being particularly loud."

"Well, we never did get to the really noisy part, did we? Stupid teenagers."

Harry laughs, presses a kiss to my lips. "Not for lack of trying," he murmurs against my mouth. "I expect that lovely arse of yours is considerably less tight by now."

"Not _considerably_ less," I protest. My eyes drop to the erection tenting the front of his trousers. "And my arse wasn't the problem. It was that monster between your legs."

Harry gives me a rueful smile. "I'm afraid I'm stuck with it." He takes my hand in his, pushes it inside his pants; my fingers close on his thick cock, trace the wet tip of his shaft. God, it feels so damned good to touch him again. "Shall we give it another go?"

I nod.

Harry rises from the bench and disappears down the hall, reappearing with two towels. He dims the sitting room lights, sets the towels on the bench next to me, and pulls me to my feet.

"Draco." Harry's mouth is on mine again, more urgent this time, and his hands are shoving off my waistcoat, pulling my shirttails out of my trousers. I push his shirt off his shoulders; our belts come undone beneath one another's fingers. Our trousers and pants hit the floor, and then we're staring at each other, breathing hard, our naked skins gleaming in the low light.

"God, you're beautiful." His fingertips slide from my chest down my abdomen, lingering at the thatch of dark golden hair below my navel. Harry reaches for a towel and wraps it around my waist, tucking the ends inside. I glance down; a pair of condoms lie atop the other towel. I pick them up and examine them.

"These are new," I observe, noting the expiration date. "You said you haven't been with anyone since—"

"I haven't." Harry raises my chin with two fingertips. "I bought them today, along with this." He reaches inside the second towel, withdraws a bottle of lube, and grins. "You might say I was feeling...unreasonably hopeful."

I shake my head, confused. "But, how did you know...?"

He blushes. "When I saw this season's Symphony schedule, I had my manager book me at Jardinière the same nights you were playing. I figured Dean and Seamus would be able to talk you into dropping by after at least one of your concerts."

My eyes widen with surprise, then narrow with mock displeasure. "Those bastards. They were in on it all along."

Harry nods, looking sheepish. "There may have been some bribery involved. It seems Seamus can't pass up a case or two of Midleton's Very Rare."

I laugh. "I suppose not." My thoughts grow serious again; I raise my hand to his chest, fingering the small thatch of hair between his nipples.

"You didn't have to wait so long to find me again, you know."

He gives me a lopsided smile. "You have Robert to thank that I found you at all."

I tilt my head, puzzled. "Why?"

"You never wanted to speak to me again, remember? You _didn't_," he insists, putting a finger to my lips when I open my mouth to deny it.

"I didn't really mean—"

"Yes you did. At the time, you did. And as far as I knew, you still felt the same way. I was going to honour that. But Robert..." Harry's voice falters; he looks away.

I turn his face back to mine. "What? Tell me."

He looks up at the ceiling, takes a deep breath. "Before he died, he gave me his blessing to find you again. Insisted, actually. Said I should be with the one I really loved." He winces, as though the memory is too painful to recall. "Said it was time to stop punishing myself for whatever went wrong between you and me."

I swallow hard.

"Maybe it's time we both did that," I say quietly.

We look at each other for a long moment. I hand him the condoms, pick up the towel, and wrap it around his waist. I take his hand in mine, lead him to the front door, and open it; we step onto the verandah.

He pushes the lid off the hot tub, turns on the jets; we shed our towels and slip into the warm, bubbly water. His arms circle my waist.

_"Draco..."_

Harry presses the length of his body against me, and a jolt of corporeal recognition shoots up my spine. I can't believe it's been ten years since we last touched, because everything, _everything_ about him feels right and good and necessary—and I _need_ him inside me, in a way I've never needed anything before, as though he's already a vital part of me, a limb I hadn't realised I was missing...

His mouth finds my earlobe, sucking and nipping; he reaches between my legs, and I groan when his hand closes on my cock beneath the water. His lips move to mine, parting them; his fingers match the movements of his tongue in my mouth, sliding up and down my shaft, his thumb swirling over the head of my prick. He pulls away and grins, eyes full of mischief.

"I want to try something."

Harry removes his glasses and sets them on the edge of the tub. His hands close on my hips, moving me in the water, until I'm sitting just forward of one of the jets. Warm bubbles blow between my arsecheeks, tickling my balls. I laugh and squirm.

"Stay there," he commands, then takes a deep breath and disappears beneath the water; I feel his lips close around the head of my prick, sliding down, until I'm completely enveloped in his mouth — and then everything is pressure, and suction, and delicious, tickling, teasing pleasure, and I can't tell where the warm wetness of his mouth ends and where the water begins, and _God_, how can he be doing that for so long? I start to worry, grab his head to pull him up. He gasps for breath, shakes the wet hair out of his face, and grins at me.

"Did you like it? I could have kept going, you know."

"How?"

"Won second place in an endurance diving contest when I was fourteen. I can hold my breath for ages."

"You're a man of many talents." I grin back at him and reach between his legs. "Want me to try?"

Harry shakes his head, pulling me close; he raises a hand to my face and traces my lips with his fingertips.

"You've a lovely mouth, but I'd rather be inside another part of you. If that's all right."

I swallow and nod.

He leans in for another kiss, his tongue probing my mouth in slow, deep, questing thrusts — a preview of the pleasures to come, no doubt — and then I can't wait any longer. Pulling away, breathless, I turn around in his arms and grasp the edge of the tub, trembling with anticipation.

I hear the rip of the foil as he tears open a condom and rolls it on.

"Are you going to use both of them?" I ask.

His hands smooth up my back, over my shoulders. "Wasn't planning on it — the other one's for backup. But I can, if it would make you feel safer."

I smile over my shoulder at him. "One should be enough, I think."

Harry grins, presses another kiss to my lips, and reaches for the bottle of lube. I feel liquid, cold at first and then warming, drip onto my bum and slide down my crease. He caresses my abdomen, his hand splaying lightly over my stomach; a slippery finger swirls against my hole, then presses inside.

"Relax," he whispers against my ear. I breathe deeply, pushing back against the pressure of his hand, willing myself to open. Harry's finger twists slowly, brushes my prostate; my prick jerks. He chuckles.

"As responsive as ever, I see."

I frown. "I don't remember us doing much of this."

"Didn't have to," Harry murmurs, his breath hot against my neck. "I could almost make you come in your trousers just from passing you dirty notes in Flitwick's class."

I blush at the memory. "It's a wonder either of us passed Advanced Music Theory."

"Thank God Hermione was paying attention." He presses a second finger inside me. "Christ, but you were right," he teases. "You're not still a virgin, are you?"

"Hardly," I scoff, though it's all I can do not to whimper from the ache of his fingers working me open. "Trust me, I can take it like a man."

"I hope so." Harry's fingers move slowly in and out of me; his breath quickens. "I don't think I can hold off much longer."

"Then for the love of God, give it to me already. A decade is wait enough."

Harry laughs, nipping the back of my neck. "Patience. I don't want to hurt you." He pushes a third finger inside me.

"I'm...not...that...delicate," I choke out, but my body protests the additional intruder. He must feel it too, because his hand stills.

"Maybe not, but you're still tight. Lube up your cock. I need you to be really ready." He leans closer to my ear. "Because once I'm inside you, I won't want to stop."

I obey, grabbing the bottle and upending it over my prick; he reaches around my hip, his fingers still inside me, and smoothes the lube up and down my shaft.

"God, yes, _that."_ I can't stop my moan.

Harry strokes me slowly, the swollen head of my prick disappearing and reappearing between his thumb and forefinger; my internal muscles relax a bit, letting his other fingers further in. They move in time with his hand on my prick as he bends over my back, the air around us hot and heavy from the steam of the tub and our efforts. His fingers find my prostate again, applying pressure, and I cry out; his fingertips smear slick wetness down my prick. I feel him smile against the nape of my neck.

"I think you're ready now." He withdraws his fingers and picks up the bottle; I hear the squelch of the lube as he slathers it all over the condom.

"I've _been_ ready," I whinge, inwardly grateful for his preparations; I silently pray it won't hurt as much as our fumbling teenaged attempts at the endeavour. I feel blunt pressure against my hole, the warmth of his body over my back, one hand holding my stomach, the other gripping my hip.

_"Oh..."_

The head of his prick slips inside me, a staccato stab of pain that fades to a lingering burn; Harry stills for a moment, then presses into me slowly, steadily. I take deep breaths, my thighs trembling with the effort of opening up, taking him in. He freezes.

_"Fuck,"_ he says.

My brow furrows. "What's wrong? You said you wouldn't want to stop."

"I don't, but—" Harry takes a ragged breath. "It's been ages, and...I've never been this excited. Won't last long, I'm afraid."

A smile curls my lips. "Okay, just...take it easy, all right?"

"I'll have to." Harry inhales and exhales several times, a little more deeply with each breath, then draws back with agonising slowness. "I'll come in about five seconds if I don't."

He pushes into me, deeper this time, until his cock is buried to the hilt and my name is a soft cry against my neck, and I don't know if I can stop myself from coming too soon either, because Christ, _this_ is what's been missing all these years — not an empty silver cup on my mantel, not the accolades and the press and the hero worship — but this wholeness I feel with him and no one else. Why it took me so long to realise I'll never understand, but his body is moving behind me and inside me, and he's moaning against my shoulder in time with each slow thrust, and my hand is scrabbling for his on my hip, lacing our fingers together, and I don't care that it's taken this long for me to come to my senses...don't care about anything at all but this moment, this weightless, timeless bliss...

A sweet, tender melody rises from the depths of my mind, segueing to a complex modal passage, a stormy, passionate bridge. Our bodies move in synchronicity with the music, with each other, a perfect synaesthesia of sound and touch — until I can't differentiate between the deep, languorous thrusts of his cock in my arse and the steady march of the chord progressions in my head; between the ever-morphing leitmotif and his fingers carding through my hair, smoothing up my arms, skittering over my abdomen; between the ebb and flow of the water and the rise and fall of the melodic line and our breaths coming faster and harder as the music grows in intensity, in urgency...

_"Harry..."_

It's a name I've not let slip my lips in years, and the sound of my own voice calling it over my shoulder with such naked, honest need startles me; but he answers eagerly, capturing my mouth in a desperate kiss, abandoning whatever self-control has allowed him to hold back this long. He grasps my hips and pulls me harder against him, while I snap mine back to meet him thrust for thrust; the increased speed and pressure does something intensely pleasurable to my prostate, and _fuck_, I've never needed to come this badly. I wrap my hand around my cock, and with three hard tugs, I'm shaking and cursing, come spilling out of my prick, over my fingers, into the water.

Harry stills one last time, and then, with a wail guaranteed to bring a morning-after scolding from the neighbours, he surges inside me, shaking thighs pressed to mine, gasping and shuddering.

The music dissolves, leaving behind only the weight of his body against my back, the warmth of his breath slowing and quieting against my cheek, the peaceful emptiness of my head; I reach for his hand, needing emotional as well as physical reassurance that what just happened was real. Harry squeezes my fingers, then reaches between us and grasps the base of the condom, carefully pulling out of me; I'm simultaneously grateful for the precaution and annoyed at its necessity. Perhaps, with enough time and enough testing, we'll be able to forego the damnable things. Perhaps I'm getting far too far ahead of myself.

Perhaps I'm losing my mind. Or just getting it back.

We sink into the warm water, weightless and boneless. I turn around in his arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck. The scent of his warm skin fills my nostrils; it's all I can do not to lick him from ear to...oh, why the hell not?

Harry chuckles when I do. "God, I've missed that tongue of yours. And the rest of you as well." He gives my arse a gentle squeeze. "And _this_...Christ, I've no words."

"Try me."

His eyes narrow with pleasure; he traces my jaw line with his fingertips. "It's just, I'd forgotten how good it can- scratch that. It's _never_ been that good. Not for me, anyway."

I smile. "Nor for me." _Not by a hell of a long shot_, I add silently. He doesn't need to know how badly I already want him inside me again — at least not just yet. Christ, I'll be offering to help him pick curtains soon if I don't watch myself.

Harry's hand smoothes over my shoulder. "Stay the night with me?"

_Hell, yes_. And the night after that, and the night after that, but... "I've a telephone interview tomorrow at the arse crack of dawn. Some reporter named Skeeter from the _Daily Mail_."

Harry frowns. "Skeeter's an insufferable bitch. Have Pansy push it back till noon. There's a lovely little creperie down the hill I want to show you." He reaches between my legs; amazingly, my cock starts to stir again. "If we get out of bed at all, that is."

I smirk. "I'll have to get out at some point. I can't very well show up for the concert tomorrow night unshowered, with love bites all over my neck."

"That's exactly my plan. Then everyone will know you're taken." Harry nips the skin of my neck, just below my earlobe. "I'm marking what's mine."

My mouth quirks. "So I'm your property now?"

His eyes meet mine; his expression turns serious. "Don't take this as a proposal — God knows I've bollixed up everything else between us, and I'm going to want to do that one right — but...I'm yours, if you'll have me." His fingertips brush my face. "I always have been, in a way."

I swallow hard — trying, without success, to suppress an embarrassingly large grin. "I live in London; you live here. How will we manage?"

Harry shrugs. "I suppose we'll have to improvise, at least until we can get ourselves sorted. In all likelihood, I'll be selling this place soon, anyway." He picks up his glasses and slips them on.

"Why?"

He stands and steps out of the tub, helping me do the same. "If we're going to be together, I'll need a different set of neighbours. Ones who don't mind me shagging a loud blond in my hot tub at all hours."

I laugh. "That can't be your only reason for selling it."

He wraps the towel around me and reaches for his own. "_You're_ reason enough." He tucks the end of his towel around his waist and takes my hand. "Actually, I was thinking of doing some travelling. An attractive young thing like you needs a chaperone to protect him from lecherous old conductors. Besides, I'd like to get back to composing, and I can do that anywhere."

I raise an eyebrow. "What are you going to write?"

He leads me to the door and ushers me inside. "An arrangement, for starters. _Starry Dragon_ for four hands."

"Why not an arrangement for orchestra? You could write a concerto, one you actually like. And perform it, as well."

A smile crosses his lips. "It's a brilliant idea, but my days of concertising are over."

I shake my head. "You're the Chosen One, Harry. The greatest pianist of our age." I pull him close, seeking his eyes, and run my fingers through his tousled hair. "The classical world still needs you. The larger world, as well."

He mulls this over. "In that case, perhaps a double concerto? You could help me stage my comeback."

I smile. "I think I'd like that."

Harry's brow furrows. "There's one problem. I still haven't figured out the ending."

"Maybe we can write an ending together." I take his hand in mine. "Starting now."

The corners of Harry's mouth turn upward, and he nods.

I tug his hand, leading him over to the piano bench; he pulls it out and sits down beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist. We look into each other's eyes for a long moment, then at the empty staves on the blank page, and raise our fingers to the keys.

We improvise.


End file.
